


This Isn’t a Spectator Sport

by kitsune_kitana



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Exhibitionism, M/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-06
Updated: 2012-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-01 13:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/357384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsune_kitana/pseuds/kitsune_kitana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames watches Arthur get off while they're on different jobs. A story of Skype flirting and self-abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Isn’t a Spectator Sport

"Oh, Arthur," Eames sighs. "Darling, you look exhausted."

From his prone position on the bed, he can feel papers being crushed under the weight of his right knee, see a stack of surveillance photos tilting precariously at his left elbow. His moleskin is open beside him, but at least an hour has passed since he's done more than sketch a few more escape routes into the complicated approximation of the Fushimi Inari shrine they're using in the dream. The TV is playing quietly, tuned into some variety show where a chimpanzee is inexplicably trying to catch noodles being sent down a water slide with chopsticks.

"I know.” Arthur scrubs a hand over his face. It doesn't help that Eames looks good on his laptop screen, though there's an eight hour difference between Bergen and Osaka and his miserable almost-morning is a decent hour for Eames.

“Things not going quite as you planned?”

“Marijke couldn’t extract her way out of a paper bag, and Terrence is a decent architect but a shit human being,” Arthur grumbles, feeling old and curmudgeonly. He finds that the more frequently he works with Eames and Ariadne--Cobb having gone into retirement after the inception job--the more intolerant he becomes of others in the dream share industry. Their inefficiency, their lack of creativity, and, more often than not, their personalities drive him crazy. And while Arthur is willing to admit that some of this may stem from a mere difference in work styles, he’s not entirely ready to let go of the notion that there was a lot less talent going around in dream sharing altogether.

Eames laughs at this, and Arthur fights the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t want to laugh. He wants to fix this precarious plan his team has put together, deliver the information they’ve been paid to gather, and then go home. Instead, what originally started as a group of key stockholders in Daito Securities wanting to know who was driving the members of the Board to divest some of the company’s most profitable subsidiaries had turned into a Gordian mess involving the president’s Brazilian mistress, a coup by a wakagashira of the local yakuza syndicate, and the massive gambling debts of the CFO’s playboy son. Arthur is a master of contingency plans, but he wonders if his best bet would’ve been figuring out how to bail from this job once every stone they unturned began to lead to two more uncertanties.

“I warned you about Marijke,” Eames says easily, then he’s squinting into the screen, the familiar lines of his face humorously close to the camera. Arthur feels a pang in his chest, though he’s honestly convinced it’s more likely to be heartburn from the stress than something warm and embarrassing like missing his boyfriend--lover--his _something_ , who happened to be over 5,000 miles away. “I suggest you drop what you’re doing and head to bed, pet. I doubt you’ll make any strides tonight, tired like you are.”

“How the fuck am I supposed to sleep? I’ll just roll around thinking about how everything is going to fall apart at the last second, and I’ll have to spend the rest of my life in some Japanese prison, dying of boredom.” He knows he’s being childish, but his desire to maintain his professionalism in front of his current team has only just outmeasured his desire to sulk like a teenaged girl, and now Eames has to bear the brunt of it.

When he looks up, though, the forger hardly looks like a man put out by his lover’s whining. He looks infuriatingly well rested, that crooked smile somehow simultaneously inspiring feelings of exasperation and fondness. Even though Arthur is ready to pull his hair out by the roots, he honestly feels better having seen that at least Eames is enjoying himself on his current project.

“You know I’d break you out, darling. Maybe during year two or three. You could really use a vacation, and I hear there’s no safer place to be incarcerated than in Japan.”

“You’d leave me in jail?” Arthur shifts to his side, propping his head up on his hand.

“I’d leave you to relax, and meditate, and indulge whatever hobbies you have that aren’t browbeating a team into shape. You’re so good with your hands, maybe you should take up..... _origami_. Or flower arranging. ‘Arthur’s Extraordinary _Ikebana_.’ You know, it has a certain ring to it--”

“Shut up, Eames.” Arthur sighs, lips twitching. “Even if I wanted to sleep, I’m so wired. Just a couple hours more, and I’ll be able to nod off.”

The other man’s smile is coy as he leans forward, conspiracy written all over his face. Arthur recognizes the mischievous gleam in his eye even though bad lighting and a laptop camera. “Why darling, if it’s help winding yourself down that you need, I have just the thing.”

The suggestion alone is enough to make his cock twinge hopefully, but Arthur fights it down. “Are you tired of your own hand already?”

“My hand is never really the one that I want. Let me watch you, Arthur.”

“Eames, no--”

He can see Eames shifting the laptop closer and settling himself back in his seat, legs open and easy, fingers twitching the way they do when he’s anticipating something and he doesn’t want to pull out his totem. He’s acting like he already knows he’s going to get his way.

And Arthur has to admit that Eames might be onto something because the more Arthur looks at the forger, the warmth in his belly spreads further, lower. Eames’ shoulders are strong under the lines of his shirt; Arthur can see where muscle presses against cotton, the material of his sleeves clinging to his biceps. He lets himself remember, just for a second, what if feels like to be caged between those arms with the weight of Eames’ body moving against him, and shivers.

“This is ridiculous,” he says, but Arthur knows that he’s already flushed and there’s no way that Eames, who picks up on these details for a living, wouldn’t have noticed.

If he had any doubt, Eames is grinning like a Cheshire cat quickly convinces him otherwise.

“I’ll give you two minutes,” Arthur capitulates, though the voice inside his head is already protesting. “If I feel like an idiot even for a second, I’m calling it off.”

“Deal. Whatever you like.”

Arthur rolls his eyes as Eames--unashamed--rubs his hands gleefully together, like a man feeling lucky at the roulette tables, or maybe more like a teenager who’d just broken through the parental controls on the family computer. “I am going to take such good care of you, Arthur. You won’t regret it. Now, lay down on your back for me.”

He’s already feeling stupid as he maneuvers himself into position, but calling it off before he’s even done anything reeks of cowardice. Arthur forces himself to go with it. Two minutes is all he promised.

“Now, close your eyes. Don’t be nervous, just put your hand on your belly and breathe slow and deep. I want you to relax, Arthur. Imagine that I’m in that room with you, and we have nothing else to do for the rest of the night.”

Everything is silent except for the sound of him inhaling and exhaling. He can feel his right hand rising and lowering with each breath. Eames voice is husky and intimate, a rumble that sounds cigarette-soaked, though Arthur knows that Eames hardly smokes. It’s one of the things he’d noticed the first time they met: a man with the body of a thug for hire and the voice of a phone sex operator.

“That’s it, darling. Whenever your ready, just slide your hand down, down--further--yes--”

Arthur inches his hand over his slacks, and now he’s cupping himself. His hips jerk at first contact, and he can hear the hitch in his breath mirrored by Eames across their connection.

“Pretend it’s my hand. I just want to feel you for a bit. I can tell you’re getting hard, but you’re going to have to work harder before I get you off. That’s okay, though, isn’t it, Arthur? You like things when you have to work for them, and right now all you get is my palm rubbing against your prick.”

He can almost imagine it. Eames is on the bed with him, sitting on the edge, maybe, and his big hand is curled between Arthur’s legs. He won’t move it, but Arthur wants him to, wants those clever fingers stroking his dick. He thrusts upwards, trying to encourage Eames to do something, do anything, but Eames doesn’t take the bait. Arthur knows it’s really his own hand, but he’s arching upwards, looking for more contact, and he keeps his palm still just like Eames described.

“Arthur, I can see you’re blushing.”

“Fuck you,” he bites out, but he knows his face is heating up even more.

“No, it’s sweet. I love when you get like this. I want you to give yourself a little more now--”

Arthur grits his teeth as he pushes the heel of his palm against the base of his cock. Even through the cloth of his pants, it’s electrifying. Then he smooths his palm across the shaft, up and down, up and down, and Arthur can feel himself getting harder and harder.

“Eames,” he whispers, his hand speeding up. Heat is pooling low in his belly, between his legs, twisting in a warm column up his spine. His nipples are tingling, and Arthur pretends that Eames is on top of him, licking them into tight nubs. He can’t hold back a quiet hum of pleasure when he plucks them to stiff peaks, so sensitive even through the cotton of his dress shirt.

“Arthur.” Eames voice is hoarse.

“Arthur,” he says again, clearing his throat, and Arthur just shakes his head, his fingers wandering down further to rub against his balls through the cloth of his trousers.

“Arthur!”

“What,” he snaps, turning. On the screen, Eames is looking hot under the collar. His pants are visibly tented, and there’s a sheen of sweat on his upper lip. Arthur thinks distractedly about how he wants to lick it off and then fuck Eames’ mouth with his tongue.

“I can’t see you,” Eames says, an abashed look on his face. “Move the camera.”

Arthur laughs, feeling loose, more relaxed than he’d been a few minutes ago. He shifts the computer to his side, pushing photos and papers to the floor. Checking out the monitor, he drops his left leg, angling so that Eames can see what he’s doing with his hands.

“Better?”

Eames licks his lips. “Undo your shirt, Arthur.”

So, Arthur undoes each button, slowly, then pushes the edges of the shirt to the side, sliding his hand down his torso and closing his eyes again. “What else, Eames? What do you want me to do?”

Arthur doesn’t know that he’s ever heard himself like this before. His voice feels molasses slow coming out of him, thick and full of anticipation. He brushes his fingers across his nipples, then moans at the frisson of pleasure that sends straight to his cock. The weight of Eames’ gaze on him only intensifies the feelings Arthur’s strumming from his own body, and when he imagines that larger hands than his are rolling his nipples to hardness, pinching to just this side of discomfort, he squirms but doesn’t stop.

“Please, Eames,” Arthur whispers, arching into his own touch.

“Put your hands down and tell me what you’re thinking.” Eames’ voice is ragged, and Arthur’s not sure if he’s giving orders or pleading.

When Arthur looks over at his laptop, the other man is clenching the arms of his chair with white knuckles. Even in the subpar lighting, he can see sweat gleaming on Eames’ face. Arthur tangles his hands in the sheets on either side of himself and lets his thighs fall open more, knowing that the press of his dick against his slacks is obscene.

“I’m imagining that you’re on the bed,” he starts. “That you want my nipples to be hard. So, you touch them. And then you pinch them. It hurts, but I know you like to see how sensitive they are.”

“I want to kiss them,” Eames confesses, looking wrecked. He sounds like he does after a run, like his blood is rushing and his heart is pounding. “Fuck, Arthur, they look so pert and tight. I’d get them wet and hard, and hold you down so I could feel them against my mouth.”

Arthur moans and grinds back into the mattress. “My pants,” he says, remembering. “I don’t want to ruin them. Let me take them off.”

“You can unzip them, sweetheart, but only that for now.”

Arthur does so, carefully. His eyes flutter as he reaches down to cradle himself in his hand, breathing in deep, even less between his hand and his aching prick. He can see where precome has soaked through his underwear, a darker spot against black briefs.

“Please, Eames.” He raises his eyes to beg, and sees that the expression on Eames’ face has turned wicked. “I don’t want to get them wet.”

“Oh, are we _wet_ now, darling.” His voice is a dark purr. “Why don’t you show me where you’re getting yourself so wet.”

“Here,” Arthur whispers, hands framing his crotch. He knows the camera is high quality enough that Eames can see everything, where moisture soaked through and his dick presses insistently at the material. His face is burning, and he feels so wanton displaying himself like this. It’s not like Eames hasn’t seen everything already, but it’s different--dirtier--through a camera lens.

“You’re so sweet, Arthur. Such a good boy. I want you to rub the head of your prick for me. Just the head, and just enough to make your knickers even wetter.”

Arthur moans quietly, but he reaches down and finds the rounded tip of his dick, stroking it through his underwear. He follows the curve of the corona with the pad of his finger, then strokes along the glans. When precome spurts from his cock, the liquid is instantly soaked up into black cotton. He continues to the slit, teasing it open a little, then pressing into it with his finger. The sensation is almost painful, and Arthur pulls away with a hiss.

“Don’t stop,” Eames orders.

“It’s too much,” he tries.

“I love that about you. I want to tie you down someday, and tease the little slit at the tip of your pretty cock until you squirm and cry. And then I’ll do it all over again with my tongue until you beg me to finish you.”

Eames’ breathing is heavy, but so is Arthur’s, and he circles and circles that small opening, his thighs clenching as the ministrations become too intense. But the damp spot is only spreading and Eames hasn’t told him stop. He’s leaking enough that his own fingers are getting slick, and he feels so tight, so hot, shivering like he’s going to shake apart.

“Eames,” he mewls, back arching to move away from the over-stimulation of his own hand. The cotton is so rough against his piss slit, and he can’t stop his hips from twitching away, even as he eases his thumb over it again. The pleasure and pain are too similar to tell apart. “Please, Eames,” he begs.

“Stop.”

Arthur sags with relief. He’s panting, trying to regain his footing.

“Lose the pants. Show me again how wet you’ve gotten.” Arthur shimmies out of them, not sure where they crumple somewhere on then ground, then turns and splays his legs open towards the laptop camera. The head of his cock is clearly delineated through the damp material. He sees that Eames’ hand is moving between his own thighs, and his eyes are riveted on the screen.

“Take out your cock. I want to see it.”

Arthur pushes his underwear down and off his ankles, then groans as he runs a shaking hand down the length of his dick. It’s red, almost purple at the head, and he can feel it pulsing with his heartbeat, liquid beading at the tip. He smears the precome across his skin, hips stuttering upwards, then looks straight at Eames in the camera as he takes his finger into his mouth and sucks it clean.

“Still a good boy?”

“Oh, yes.” Eames is jacking himself off steadily now. “The very best, Arthur. God, I love watching you like this.”

Arthur groans, making a tight circle with his hand and sliding it slowly up his shaft. He lowers his other hand to cup his balls, rolling them gently, so gently, a counterpoint to the steady pressure of his fist. “What should I do, Eames,” he murmurs, twisting a hand around himself. “What do you want me to do?”

When he looks at Eames on his laptop, he can see the other man’s pants are open, the red tip of his dick peeking out the top of his fist as it pumps between his legs.

“Arthur,” he moans, and Arthur matches his speed, matches the way that Eames is bringing himself off with his hands. The slick, wet noises of both of them fucking into their pre-come slick palms across thousands of miles and an Internet connection fill the room. Eames panting Arthur’s name as he strips his hand up and down his dick brings him to the edge faster than anything else.

“I’m going to come,” Arthur says, clenching his eyes shut, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. “Eames, I’m going to come. Please, let me come now. Tell me I can come, Eames, please, please.” He feels so desperate, feels his balls churning, but he can’t get over that last hump, can’t push himself over the edge until Eames tells him he can.

“I’ve got you,” Eames says. He’s still jerking himself off, but his eyes are open and on Arthur. “I want you to come now. I want you to rub yourself until you come all over your fist for me. Do it rough, like it’s my hand, and I’m right behind you. I know how you like to end slow and steady, but do it like if I were there. Like I’m holding your thighs open and you’re squirming for me to slow down, but I’m milking you hard and fast and it’s too much sensation at once and your hips are trying to twitch away, but I’m holding you in place and you can’t make me stop--”

Eames cries out, mid-litany, and the combination of him coming on the screen, back arched and neck straining, and the filth coming from his mouth pushes Arthur over the edge. He spurts onto his own stomach, hips jerking, muscles clenched, stroking himself through the aftershocks the way that Eames likes to do, before collapsing back to the mattress.

“Well, fuck,” he says, once he’s caught his breath and his heart has slowed.

Arthur feels immediately lethargic. When his head lolls towards the laptop, he can see Eames cleaning himself up with some tissues, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

“Indeed, darling. If I were there, I’d clean you up with my mouth and tuck you in, but it looks like you’re managing just fine without me.”

Arthur has wiped himself off with the corner of a bed sheet, and is already half curled under the blankets. He blinks slowly at the laptop screen. “Yeah, Eames,” he rasps out. “I’m good.”

The look on Eames’ face is immeasurably fond, and Arthur closes his eyes against it. “Take care of yourself, love. And I’ll see you in a couple weeks.”

He barely remembers murmuring in assent, doesn’t remember ending the call at all.


End file.
